What if?
by ClassyGirlsWearPearls
Summary: Sherlock investigates an elementary school shooting and parenthood makes it difficult. Written as therapy after watching a day of coverage of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting in Newtown, Connecticut earlier today.


Sherlock had taken the case that Lestrade brought to him reluctantly. John wouldn't even go to the crime scene. "I've seen too many children massacred against my will, Sherlock. I'm not about to go and see some willingly," he said.

"I don't want to go either," Sherlock admitted quietly. "I feel that I must, though. For Hamish."

John kissed his husband's cheek and stroked his hairline with the pad of his thumb. "If it gets too difficult, I want you to come home. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded. "Keep an eye on your phone. I'll probably call." He left off the end of his thought. _I'll probably call to hear both of your voices because what if it was Hamish's school this happened at and I was looking for the man who killed my son?_

John nodded. "Go upstairs and say good-bye to him, will you?"

Sherlock headed up to their son's room obediently and gave their seven-year-old a hug and a kiss good-bye. He made sure to tell Hamish how much he loved him and how he would miss him.

Hamish laughed and said, "Papa, you're only going to be gone a few hours. You won't miss me that much. Promise."

Sherlock chucked hollowly. Yes, he would be a few hours at the most, but it was the thought of _what if _that would cause him to miss his son more than he usually would when he went out on a case.

When he got downstairs, John gave him one last kiss and said, "Don't stay out too late with this one. I need you home before he goes to bed."

"I'll be as quick as I can," Sherlock promised, and with that he left.

About two hours earlier, at a primary school in another part of London, a young man in his twenties had entered on the pretense that he was interviewing for a position as a music teacher. He had used the opportunity to kill 30 people, 20 of which were students, and injure 16 others. Somehow, in the mass confusion, he had managed to escape. The school was on lockdown despite the fact that the day had already ended and the students should have been at home. Lestrade had called Sherlock and asked him to come help find the man.

"I understand if it is too rough for you, what with being a parent and all-"

"Nonsense. If anything, that makes me need to do this more. I'll be there within the hour," Sherlock had replied. His heart began to beat wildly as he said so, though. He had seen dead children before, but not since Hamish had come into their lives.

When he arrived, Lestrade was waiting for him just beyond the yellow tape roping off the perimeter. "Alright?" he asked, holding up the tape.

"I've felt better about coming to these things," Sherlock admitted. "What about you?"

"I don't think any parent can see this and wonder what would happen if it was their kid who was leaving in a body bag," Lestrade said quietly and thickly. Sherlock, in a rare display of affection, squeezed his shoulder before continuing to walk towards the school.

The crime scene was horrifying. The victims were in the cafeteria draped in white sheets. Some were still unidentified, and some were surrounded by wailing family members. Sherlock headed to where the adult victims were laid so he could estimate the height of the shooter and to glean any additional evidence from the victims without actually looking at the dead children.

He quickly rattled off deductions to Lestrade – five foot eleven, left handed, not properly trained on how to use a gun – and prepared to visit the places where the victims were killed. As he crossed the room to walk out, a sheet was lifted off of a boy around six or seven who had curly blond hair and would have looked as if he were sleeping if it wasn't for the bullet wound in his head.

A man and a woman stood over him and cried, letting the proof that their son was dead wash over them. Sherlock stiffened and looked at the boy for another couple of seconds. The child looked incredibly like Hamish. Lestrade must have seen this as well, because he placed a hand on Sherlock's arm and asked, "You alright, mate?"

"Please show me whatever you need to show me so I can leave quickly," he whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat momentarily. He would wait until he was back with John for his breakdown.

Lestrade nodded and led him around the school. Sherlock had created a profile of the killer and Lestrade's team had already identified a few suspects that they should be looking for.

"You want to come along to question the suspects?" Lestrade asked him.

"Would you mind dropping me back at Baker Street on your way to question the first suspect?" Sherlock asked in response. Lestrade just nodded and motioned to his car. The fact that Sherlock was going to ride in a squad car with him said enough about how uncomfortable he was. They rode in silence until Sherlock hopped out and thanked him for the ride.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called as he climbed out. Sherlock turned, a look of absolute devastation on his face. Lestrade swallowed, and said, "We'll catch him. I promise you we will."

Sherlock nodded stoically and walked into his flat.

John heard the front door shut and knew it had to be his husband. Hamish was curled up in his lap, watching the news with him. His son was a bit too big to be sitting in his lap, but John didn't care today. He shook him lightly and said, "I think Papa's home. You're going to give him a big hug when he gets in, right love?"

Hamish nodded, tracing the pattern of his dad's jumper sadly with his finger. He perked up more as his father bounded up the stairs (two at a time, John noted) and a key turned in the door.

John greeted his husband with a sad smile, which immediately fell away as he took in the look of utter despair on Sherlock's face. "Darling," he whispered, preparing to offer some sort of verbal or physical comfort. Sherlock took one look at Hamish and swooped down to the couch, scooping up his son and cradling him close. He buried his head in his son's curls and let everything he felt spill out.

Hamish hung onto his Papa tightly. John wasn't sure if it was because he was worried about falling or because Sherlock was so distressed, but he finally said in a soft voice, "You don't have to cry, Papa. Everything is okay. I promise."

Sherlock choked. "I love you so much," he said over and over again, as if those words were the only ones that his mouth was able to produce.

"I love you too, Papa," Hamish whispered, running his fingers gently through Sherlock's curls in the same way he saw John soothing him whenever he would get too stressed or frustrated.

Sherlock stretched an arm out to John, who took his hand and gently brought him over to the couch to sit next to him. Sherlock continued to sob, holding Hamish in his lap. John put his arms around both of them, and Sherlock maneuvered himself so he could intertwine their fingers.

"It's alright, love," John whispered. "Everything's going to be alright."

They stayed that way until Hamish fell asleep about a half an hour later. John managed to convince Sherlock to put their son to bed by pointing out he would be stiff when he woke up. The thought of causing Hamish any discomfort sent a fresh wave of tears down Sherlock's face, but he agreed and they brought their son upstairs and tucked him into bed.

"I don't know how to deal with all of this," Sherlock admitted downstairs. "I've never been so… disturbed by a crime scene. John, one of the little boys looked just like him and all I could think was how I would go on if it had been him. Or if it had been you." He began to choke on his words again and John silenced him with a kiss.

"You're going to be alright, Sherlock," John whispered. "Hamish is safe. There is nothing to worry about. I think you just need to get a good night's sleep and we'll talk about this in the morning when you've had time to sort through all of the data."

"I need Hamish. I need him in our room tonight."

"That's fine, love. Get ready for bed and I'll go get him."

Sherlock walked to their room and began to get ready for bed. John crept upstairs and tried to get his son without waking him. Hamish stirred against his chest. "Where are we going?"

"Just downstairs. Papa needs you."

"Is it because of the dead children?"

John considered lying for a second. Hamish was bright, though, and despite having no biological connection to either of them, living with Sherlock would make anyone more blunt and observant. "Yes," John responded. "That's why I didn't go today. He's thinking too much."

"He's thinking what would happen if it was me?"

"Yes, he is. Go back to sleep now, love."

Hamish didn't sleep until Sherlock got into bed. Things were a bit mixed up tonight. When Hamish used to climb in with the two of them, he would go in the middle. Tonight, Sherlock curled his body around Hamish and pulled John down to be the big spoon, which was a reversal of their normal sleeping positions. After a few seconds of silence, Hamish gave his Papa a kiss on his chest and said sleepily, "It's okay to be sad because of the other children and their parents, Papa, but you shouldn't be sad because of me because I'm alright. Do you understand?"

Sherlock squeezed Hamish tighter into him and kissed his curls. John propped himself up and brushed the fresh tears away from the corners of Sherlock's eyes.

"Papa. I won't go to sleep until you say you won't be sad for me," Hamish threatened with a yawn.

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes. I'll be sad for the others, but I won't be sad for you, baby."

"Good. Night night," Hamish sighed tiredly. Within a few minutes, he was asleep. John continued to stroke Sherlock gently until he was sure that he was asleep as well.

The next day, Lestrade called to let Sherlock know that they had arrested a man who fit Sherlock's description perfectly. Sherlock thanked Lestrade for letting him know and got off the phone, returning his attention to his son.

"Not sad, Papa?" Hamish asked.

Sherlock sighed, leaning against John, who was sitting on the couch next to him. "Not at all, baby," he responded. Hamish smiled and returned to coloring.

John kissed Sherlock's temple, then nuzzled his face against Sherlock's hair, and stroked his hand with his thumb. He was glad that Sherlock had woken in a better mood and was spending time analyzing the new emotions he had experienced the previous day.

"I love you, you brilliant, brilliant man," John whispered.

Sherlock sighed as if all of the tension in the world was being released from his body. "I love you too," he whispered back, leaning further into John's arms. "Both of you."

**A/N: I wrote this little thing today after watching a day of coverage about the elementary school shooting in Newtown, CT. I needed to do something therapeutic, and what better way than to write. Apologies if there are any mistakes. It just popped into my head and I needed to get it out.**

**As always, I own nothing, and I apologize for the slightly really out of character Sherlock and the sadness and such, as well as the butchering of the characters.**


End file.
